


I'll Bloom For You

by Catchclaw



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, First Time, Love Confessions, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misuse of Potions, Pining while fucking, Problems That Could Be Solved By You Know Talking, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Jaskier drinks from the wrong bottle. Or is it exactly the right one?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 69
Kudos: 1705
Collections: One Prompt; What Do?





	I'll Bloom For You

**Author's Note:**

> One prompt, two fics! Inspired by [this](https://catchclaw.tumblr.com/post/190670317457/the-abc-store-was-giving-this-away-for-free-this). Link to [Crowgirl's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl) take on that prompt coming shortly.
> 
> And three cheers to Crowgirl for her thoughtful and eagle-eyed beta--and for happily bombarding me with Witcher fic ❤️

“The blue bottle,” Geralt says, ever so clearly, until it isn’t. “The blue one, Jaskier, don’t--!”

And it’s that last bit, that four letter word that Jaskier’s never particularly cared for that turns out to be the important one in that sentence, but by the time Jaskier’s besotted brain catches up to that truth, it’s far, far too late: namely, after he’s poured the whole of the bottle’s contents down his throat.

A groan; a step behind him, resigned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” 

What he swallows is uncomfortably sweet, like flowers soaked in sugar and then drowned in cloying wine. The smell hurts his nostrils and it bloody well burns all the way down but that just means it’s working, doesn’t it? Things that will make you feel better are supposed to be awful, aren’t they? And he’s in pain already; whatever the thing is that bit him this morning made sure of that, and whatever this potion is can’t be worse.

“No, it’s worse,” Geralt huffs. He grabs the bottle from Jaskier’s hand. “Gods, you really are stupid sometimes, aren’t you? I said don’t drink from the blue bottle, _don’t_. What part of that did you not understand?”

“Er,” Jaskier says, “all of it.”

He may say this while clutching Geralt’s arm. He’s not sure. His relationship to his own limbs has suddenly gotten rather fuzzy, like his body’s made of clouds or something, light and floaty and somewhat independent of his own will. Why else would he be touching Geralt, Geralt! Of all people. He who doesn’t like to be touched unless he’s bruised or bleeding, who when he deigns to ask for help makes it sound like a command. 

“Jaskier.” The witcher’s voice is white and puffy, Jaskier can’t help but notice, not its usual cumulonimbus. “I sincerely and truly wish you hadn’t drunk that.”

Fear, then, a green squeeze of it in his heart. “Why? Am I going to die?”

“No.”

He doesn’t quite hear that either. “Was that poison? It was, wasn’t it? If I die, it’s your fault, Geralt!”

A big arm around his waist. “How do you figure that?”

“Well, why are you carrying poison in your apothecary bag, for starters. And why the hell did you let that thing get close enough to me to sink its jaws into my tender flesh?”

“Your tender--?” A snort, something that Jaskier’s inflamed brain tells him is a chuckle. “That mousedragon wasn’t looking for a snack, bard. You trod over its house. Which you wouldn’t have done if you’d stuck to the road instead of larking about in the grass.”

“I wasn’t larking,” Jaskier mumbles. He knots his fingers in Geralt’s shirt and shudders, the thick taste of the potion in his throat, the room swanning unpleasantly around him. Oh dear. Oh, dear. “And I can’t feel my knees anymore. Is that bad?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says against his hair the second before he passes out. “Well. It’s not good.”  
  
  


****

When Jaskier opens his eyes again, he’s prone on the narrow bed. The fire is still burning in the hearth, the moon still at it in the sky, and it feels like fucking days have passed.

“A hour,” Geralt says. He’s sitting at the end of the bed, looking especially grumpy. “That’s all. And you’re not dead. Congratulations.”

“Hurray me.”

“But you shouldn’t sit up. Or turn your head too much. Or think too hard, frankly. Not for another few hours at least.”

“Why not?” Jaskier says, trying to do all three at once. “I feel fi--”

He means to say fine, because of course he does, but the moment he raises his head, the whole place goes off the toddle.

“That’s why,” Geralt says. He sounds like he wants to punch something.“The versaut is still in your system. It will be for a while. It’ll take a while to work itself out.”

“That’s all?”

“All what?”

Jaskier laughs and fuck, it feels amazing. So he does it again. “All that fuss over me draining your little blue bottle and all it's done is made me feel drunk?”

“Hmm.”

“You do realize that I’ve been imbibing since I was ten, don’t you? Or was it eight?” He leans back, stretching his limbs on the bed. “My mother, she had the most marvellous habit of leaving half-empty glasses of wine strewn about, right at wee Jaskier’s height, and all I had to do was walk lightly in her wake and down what was left.”

“Jaskier.”

He stretches again, his whole body singing, and gods, he can’t even feel the sting of the bite anymore, or the wrench in his back from last week when a bog witch chucked him into a tree, or the bruise on his arm where Geralt had grabbed him a few nights before and dragged him from the pale arms of a boy in a hayloft, a boy whose father waved his sword about and shouted and chased them out of town, gods! He feels brand new, he feels _remade_ , he feels--

“Fuck.” A hand on his ankle, a squeeze just this side of too hard, and a growl. “Look at you.”

There have been, by Jaskier’s reluctant count, at least a dozen times in the past year when he’s tried to summon a particular kind of Geralt’s attention; it’d be unfair of anybody to say _seduce_. Because seduction requires intent, effort, a plan, and when it comes to the witcher, Jaskier’s never had any of that. He’s simply wanted, forever, and held in his mind a simultaneous understanding that Geralt would not welcome his attentions in that arena, never would. It hasn’t stopped him from parading about without a shirt when the weather warrants, sometimes, or laying his bedroll too close, or staring at him a little too long when he’s strumming his lute and everyone in the place is singing along. But no one’s ever accused Jaskier of having a logical approach to any part of his life, especially when it comes to matters of love and joined flesh, and with the witcher, it’s no different.

Except that it is, because he’s with Geralt every day. Appreciating beauty is one thing when you know you’ll be leaving it behind, but wanting something you carry with you, that tolerates your presence, that some mornings when you sing about breakfast actually smiles and hums along a little when you sing it again--that is much more fucking complicated. It’s beautiful, is what it is, and heartbreaking, sometimes, because never before in his life has Jaskier been aware of all that he can’t have. 

With Geralt, to want isn’t as simple as to take, and that’s all right. Really, it is. He came to terms with it ages ago.

But ages ago, Geralt wasn’t this close. Ages ago, his hand wasn’t folded around Jaskier’s ankle. An hour ago, the witcher wasn’t looking at him with narrowed eyes that feel like fire, full of something that looks very much like intent.

And the room didn’t smell like a garden an hour ago, either; an hour ago, it held the air of old wood and Geralt’s sweat and the supper the innkeeper had brought up on a beaten metal tray. This isn’t his room, it’s Geralt’s, and he’d barged in looking for a salve, a solution, something, to dull the annoying and frankly itchy pain in his leg.

And then Geralt had said that thing about the blue bottle and he’d misunderstood and now he was starfished on Geralt’s bed and Geralt was touching him and he felt so goddamn wonderful and what the fuck had Geralt been so upset about, before?

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, the word drawn from a well. “I should leave. I should’ve left as soon as you drank that fucking thing.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says. “No, you shouldn’t.”

One great palm slides up to stroke his calf, hard calluses catching on his stockings. “I should.”

“Why?” His knees part of their own accord; floating again, happily. “I’m glad you’re touching me. I’d rather you didn’t stop.”

Geralt makes a hot, soft sound. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. It always has been.” He laughs because he can, because they’re talking about this thing he’s carried around like a stone and he still feels so good. “I’ve been trying to get you to look at me like that for months. Fucking _months_ , Geralt.”

Geralt’s hand climbs to his knee. “Have you?”

“And you didn’t notice. Of course you didn’t. Why would you?” Flowers in his nose instead of bitterness as he says it; oh, gods. “Don’t worry, I’ve taken no offense. I know I’m not the flavor you prefer.”

“You have no idea what I prefer, Jaskier.”

“Brunettes,” Jaskier says to the ceiling, his back arching, basking in the shine of Geralt’s eyes. “Of ample bosom and variable frame. If pressed, you’ll take raven-hair, but on the whole, you eschew blondes. But you do have a thing for big tits. Rather predictable, that.”

“I like you.”

Jaskier cackles. It rings hollow in the little room. “No, you don’t. You tolerate me.”

A dig of nails into his thigh. “I want you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier says. “You do not.”

There is more in his mind, a piece of it, as they say, that it feels like a good time to deliver, but then Geralt’s hand is cupped against his cock and the witcher’s weight is on the bed and he’s baring his teeth and really, Jaskier thinks, there’s no reason for him to speak.

“Do you know what was in that bottle?” Geralt says. “No, of course you don’t. It’s versaut; that’s its proper name. A way to tame a witcher, that’s what they used to call it.”

He has to fight to get the words out; every syllable feels like a triumph. “Er, I’m sorry. Tame--?”

Geralt’s fingers flex. “There are certain things that can make us go mad. Certain poisons, certain naturally occurring elements. A slaker’s spit, for example, or the sap of a kriyac tree. Get that shit on our skin and we’ll murder anything in our sight--friend, foe, passerby--until we’ve sweated the rot out.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, lifting his hips, stretching seams. “Hmm.”

“That’s what the blue bottle was for, a time like that. When you needed to bring me down, all you’d have to do is drink a dram and I’d be yours.”

“You’d be...what?”

Geralt looks at him, the smolder of his gaze somehow gentle. “I’d be yours. I’d want you and I’d take you, right there and then, wherever we happened to find ourselves. I’d know nothing else. Only you.”

 _Take you_? Trust Geralt to aim for delicacy at just the wrong time. “So you’d stop murdering people in favor of fucking me.”

That great hand sweeps down to squeeze at his balls. “Mmm. Yes.”

“Ah, gods, oh--but there’s no one you want to murder right now. Is there?”

“Not especially.”

“But you still want to fuck me.” 

A flicker of worry. “Yes, but--”

If Jaskier didn’t feel so good, he would cry. The witcher doesn’t want him; Geralt’s chasing the bottle, responding to some weird apothecary-generated demand. This might feel like everything he’s ever wanted, but it’s not. It’s so very much not.

But he’s hard and he’s high as a kite with cut strings and the person he adores beyond all reason is dying to be inside him and who is he to argue with the universe and its many, varied, and unusual ways of fucking up things? Because what he’s gained is a multitude of tiny marvels: Geralt’s hair falling free of its tie, liberated by Jaskier’s hands; Geralt straddling Jaskier’s hips and smiling down at him, smiling, until the curve of Geralt’s mouth is laid over his.

This isn’t what he wants but it’s so goddamn close that it makes more sense to take what he can have than continue the fight.

“I want you,” he murmurs against Geralt’s lips, “however you’ll have me. I’ll bloom for you, darling. Come and take me. Come on.”

___________

He doesn’t know what he’s saying, this idiot. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t understand what he’s offering, what he’s letting Geralt have. The damned fool downed the whole bottle when in the right circumstance, a quarter or so would’ve done; is it any wonder Geralt was struck dumb? It’s simple, alchemical logic that cannot be undone.

Except he knows that in the morning when Jaskier’s turned away from him, acting if they’re friends again because that’s all--no matter what the madness of any goddamn potion tells him--they’ll ever be, he knows it’ll feel like his fault. Because he knows this isn’t really what Jaskier wants.

Never mind the fact that his chest is a rose, pale rising to pink and cresting in heartstopping red.

Never mind the fact that he’s making the most extraordinary sounds.

Never mind that’s he’s bare beneath Geralt’s hands and utterly unafraid and by gods, Geralt whispers to himself again as they kiss, as Jaskier’s fingers knot joyfully in his hair, this isn’t what Jaskier wants.

But he does. 

He has since he looked over one afternoon and saw Jaskier singing to a tree, a fucking tree, a thing with no ears and no sense of rhythm, no inborn ability to appreciate music and yet there was the bard, trilling his heart out on the shore while Geralt washed himself in the lake and it was completely ridiculous, how much he’d wanted to climb out of that fucking water and take the fool in his arms, press him up against his audience and lick the notes from his throat as Jaskier clutched at him and whispered for more.

There were dreams before that, probably; he’d always made a habit of leaving them on the ground where he’d lain. There were moments in taverns and half-remembered alleys when he’s caught of a glimpse of something--a hand on a leg, a smile, a dark head buried between a woman’s breasts--that had irked him before, too. But it hadn’t been until that afternoon, the sun everywhere, nothing desperate to kill them in sight, that he’d understood what it was that he wanted from the man who never strayed from his heels.

He’d bought the blue bottle soon after, from a tiny, wizened apothecary; he’d always trusted women who wore a beard. 

“Are you sure you want this, witcher?” she’d said, squinting at him through a thousand dust mites.

“I’m sure.”

Her head tilted. “You understand that it has...limitations.”

He’d reached for the bottle, politely. “I’m familiar with its properties, madam, yes.”

“You have such a person to whom you could safely entrust it.” It hadn’t been a question. “A person who could activate it, if need be.”

He’d blushed at that, for fuck’s sake, and even in the shadows of her shop, the apothecary had noticed.

“I’ll take that,” she said, allowing him to pluck the bottle from her fingers, “as a yes.”

He’d never carried such a thing before, not in all his years, and he found it much, much more difficult to actually tell Jaskier about it--to entrust him with it, as the woman had said--than he’d thought. And look where that tongue-tied silence had gotten him: in bed with a half-mad bard who thought he was just as desperate to have Geralt fuck him as he was to plunge inside.

“Jasker,” he says, in a voice more reed than timber, “you have to let me go for a moment.”

“I don’t,” Jaskier says against his lips. “I absolutely do not.”

“You do if you want me to fuck you.” He strokes the inside of the bard’s thigh; the downy hair there like snow, pale and soft. Ah, gods, the way that makes Jaskier shiver. “Is that still something you want?”

Jaskier laughs, high and helpless, fucking giddy. “Gods, yes.”

“Hmm. Then I have to get something. Some oil.”

“But--”

“Shhh.” Geralt bites at his jaw. “Be good for me now. Turn over. Be ready for me when I come back.”

Two steps and he’s at his bag, his fingers closing around a moss-green bottle of oil; two more and he’s back, struck silent by the vision of Jaskier’s body, the perfect bow of his back, the way his hips are already shaking. He is a vision, this man, a portrait painted by masters and frozen here before him in real life, and he’s looking back at Geralt with such fucking trust that the vial falls to the sheets as he tears at his clothes, desperate to know skin against skin.

He’d thought the versaut would bring madness, an animal kind of drive to mark and claim and fuck. And perhaps it might have, if he’d been bloodthirsty and berserk. But he isn’t, and instead of feeling mad, he feels like a flood, as if all the love and desire he’s spent months damming up is flowing through his body free and clear and every objection he might’ve had for not doing what he wanted, every logical fucking reason there is in the book not to look or kiss or devour, that’s all gone now, gone, burned away by the ache of flowers in his nose and the rise and fall of Jaskier’s sides, the creamy, hot curves of his ass.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says, the word damp and crumpled, his face of vision of flame. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He tips over and brushes his mouth over the base of Jaskier’s beautiful back. “I thought you wanted me to look at you.”

A groan. “I did. I do. But touch me while you do it, huh? I need you to touch me.”

Geralt nuzzles the rough bumps of his spine, his palms curving to find Jaskier’s hips. “Like this?”

“Yes.”

“Like this?” He tucks his knees on either side of Jaskier’s and presses up flush.

Jaskier whimpers, a flower drifting to the forest floor. “Oh, yes.”

His lips find the base of Jaskier’s neck and he licks at the sweat there, the gathered smell of strange sweetness, the thrum of an anxious, greedy heart. Whispers: “And this?”

“Please.” Jaskier tries to rock back against him; makes a lovely sound when he finds that he can’t. “Geralt, please.”

And how in the Realms is he supposed to resist that? He isn’t meant to.

That’s what the potion’s for, after all.

 _How to tame your witcher_ , that’s what the old tales had called it, but it’s not a trick meant for just anyone. Only someone a witcher trusts might use it; _trusts_ , that is, if you believe one translation. In the other, it’s _loves_.

Regardless. There’s a reason Geralt’s never carried the stuff until now.

“Shhh,” he says to the creature who’s unmoored him, his mouth drifting to where his fingers will soon rest. “I’m here. Be patient now, Jas.”

Two fingers and too much oil. That’s how he starts. Two fingers and more oil and fevered kisses to the rippling fields of Jaskier’s back, the plains of his beautiful shoulders. More oil and more fingers, until Jaskier is crying out, is cursing, is calling Geralt every name in the book because he’s desperate, you see, and Geralt is fucking high on it.

“You’re so lovely like this,” he murmurs, watching Jaskier fight to keep him inside. “You have no idea. I’d keep you like this forever if I could, spread for me, pretty. Always ready to take my cock.”

Jaskier makes a noise like something beautiful breaking and turns his head, no invectives left, eyes like bluebells turned towards the sun. “Geralt,” he breathes, “oh, gods, Geralt, yes.”

And then there’s fire in his blood, in his movements, and in the work of a heartbeat, he’s growling, he’s sheathed, and Jaskier is standing by that tree again, the breeze in his hair and Geralt’s heart in his hands and there is nothing else that matters at all.  
  


__________

Jaskier spurts in the sheets first. He’s quite clear on that. He’s full and Geralt is growling in his ear, bent heavy over his back unrelenting and it’s so good he can’t fucking stand it that first time, when he comes. 

The second time’s a bit hazier.

Geralt is still inside him, yes, but they’re face to face--that’s what’s different. And oh, gods, Geralt’s kissing him. Kissing him and fucking him and murmuring things that if Jaskier were in his right mind, he’d want very much to believe. But he isn’t and he doesn’t and Geralt’s out of it, too, that much is certain; why else would that stone face have grown so very soft?

“That’s it,” Geralt’s saying when Jaskier comes again, the pleasure kicked out him with a gasp by Geralt’s sure grip on his cock. “Just like that. You have more for me, don’t you? Let me have it, fuck. Just like that.”

He’s beaming when he says it and Jaskier can fucking feel it: how happy the witcher is right now, watching him come, how _proud_ , and oh gods, that’ll be hard to forget. But he’ll have to, won’t he? Because this will never happen again, will it? And how much harder is it going to be not to want what that damned blue bottle’s let him have just once. Just this one time, yeah? It’s all he can have and that’s all right. That’s all right. Just that.

The third time he comes, Geralt purrs. Purrs and dips his head to watch Jaskier’s fist still moving feebly, white caps cresting on hot, sticky skin. 

“Good,” Jaskier gets out, one word sent to do the work of a thousand. “Fuck. You feel so good.”

Blunt fingers on his face, sweeping aside tides of hair. “You,” Geralt says, a razor that’s incredibly soft, a counterpoint to the sudden, fierce piston of his hips. “Jaskier.”

“That’s me,” he manages, nails digging into that gorgeous ass. “I’m all yours, darling, aren’t I?”

Geralt stares at him then like he’s made of stars or something, open-mouthed and wild-eyed, like he’s woven from something ethereal, like he’s not covered in sweat and far too much of his own spunk-- like there isn’t any goddamn potion, like he wants this, like this is real, and it can’t be, it isn’t, but that doesn’t mean Jaskier won’t fucking cling to the illusion until he has to give it up so he says _kiss me_ when he means _I love you_ and Geralt moans and covers him in the white curtain of his hair and kisses him stupid, oh gods, he does, until he comes, because when he comes, Jaskier’s witcher, he howls. Tucks his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder and lets out a whole valley of sound--more than an orchestra; it sounds like something holy, a mystery unknown and profound, and Jaskier knows in that moment that he’ll never write a verse about any of this, no single note. This is theirs, Geralt’s cheek against his, the gorgeous shudder of his body. Only theirs. 

Only his.

****  
  


In the morning, Geralt insists on apologizing to him. Profusely. It gets ridiculous rather fast.

“I’m the one that drank from the wrong bottle, as it were,” Jaskier says, exasperated, about ready to shove Geralt out of bed. “And I don’t know if you noticed, but I was quite willing and extremely fucking able to participate in what happened last night.”

“No, you weren’t,” Geralt says stubbornly. “That was the damned potion talking; that’s what it’s designed to do. I knew that. I should’ve left.”

“But you didn’t. You still haven’t. Nor, may I add, have you bothered to put on any pants.” Or any other clothing, bless him; for all his hooting, their skin is still kissing beneath the worse-for-wear sheets. “And, _and_ , how dare you presume that my actions were dictated by the contents of a bottle. I’m insulted. You think I don’t know my own mind?”

“Forgive my presumption,” Geralt says in a voice that seems to mean the opposite, “but I have seen you do some very stupid shit and fuck some very dodgy people precisely because you’ve had too much to drink. And what you chugged last night was more than cheap spirits, Jas.”

Jaskier sits up and glares, his expression only slightly undercut by his hard-on. “First of all, fuck you, he who fucks witches, and second: is it really so goddamn hard for you to believe that I enjoyed being in bed with you?”

Geralt bares his teeth--and twitches under the sheets. Don’t think Jaskier misses that. “I think you’d have enjoyed anything that happened to you after you swallowed that shit.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier spits. “A enormous, gorgeous one who scares the piss out of most people, but an idiot nonetheless.”

“Jaskier--”

“No! Shut up.” He flicks the sheet back and straddles Geralt’s thighs, spreads his palms over the broad, damp plains of Geralt’s chest. “I wasn’t going to say anything about it, ever, but since you insist on reveling in your very boring self-delusion, listen up, because I’m only saying it once: I adore you. I adore you, maybe even love you, I don’t know, and last night, yes, I was fucked, but it was exactly what I wanted, potion bullshit or not.” He draws a breath and leans down until theirs noses touch, meets those gold, unblinking eyes. “So if anybody should be apologizing or whatever, it’s me, you madman. It’s me. You were the one out of your head, isn’t that what you said? A witcher, tamed. If I hadn’t touched the thing, you never would have done any of that. Would you?”

The storm in Geralt’s face softens. His knuckles trace the curve of Jaskier’s face. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Ah, gods. “Well,” Jaskier says, a well suddenly awake in his eyes. He falls back as if he’s been slapped. “There we are, then.”

“Tch, Jas,” Geralt says tenderly. Tenderly? He can’t have heard that right. “Come back here, hmm? There’s something you don’t understand.”

He tells Jaskier about the apothecary. About the limitations of that little blue bottle, the properties of versaut. About why he’s never carried it before.

He slides a great hand into the tangle of Jaskier’s hair and tells him about an afternoon by a lake and a song sung by a fool to a tree. About water clinging to his hips and Jaskier’s back finding bark and a kiss so fiercely desired that the witcher would not let himself take. A kiss he can have now, thanks to their dual mistakes; that he can take and he does, now and now and now and again, until the last of the oil is spilled on shaking fingers, Jaskier’s, making short fevered work, and then he has Geralt inside.

There is no potion between them, no misunderstandings. There is sunshine and clean air and the man that he loves clawing at his hips and tipping his head back and splitting Jaskier’s name between his teeth when he comes and the universe ends a little in that moment, doesn’t it, yes--in the most beautiful fucking way.

“How’s your leg?” Geralt says later, his voice stretched lazily against the back of Jaskier’s neck.

“My leg?”

“The mousedragon whose house you stepped on. Your mortal wound? Ring any bells?”

“Oh,” Jaskier sighs into the pillow. “That. I’d forgotten. But now you mention it, huh. It itches a bit.”

A voice like dry leaves on toast. “It itches.”

“A bit.”

“I see. So a salve would’ve solved it, then. Or perhaps just a bandage.”

He leans back into the bow of Geralt’s arms, studiously ignoring the growing hum from outside of fully-functioning day. They can linger another hour or two, he figures, before the innkeeper gets greedy and comes looking for the day rate; that long at least, surely. And maybe if he’s very clever, he can convince Geralt they should stay. Of course he can. Whatever monsters out there who are worth killing, they can wait one more day. 

“Yes, I suppose,” he says with a happily earned yawn. “Hmm. Why?”

Geralt buries a kiss against his throat, along with what sounds suspiciously like laughter. “No reason, love,” he murmurs. “Never mind.”

****  
  


“Geralt.”

“Hmm?”

“When were you planning to tell me about the magical properties of your little blue bottle, eh? Were you planning to tell me-slash-declare-your-undying-love pre-mindless murder or mid? My money’s on mid.”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”  
  



End file.
